


To Have Words Make Their Shape

by twistedthicket1



Series: Hum like a Honey Bee [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I have no shame any more, I'm so sorry, M/M, Smut, but that's okay, lisp kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Sherlock regretted having a lisp, and 1 time he didn't...</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Have Words Make Their Shape

**Author's Note:**

> so this monstrosity is due to a number of people I follow recently getting into the "lisp kink" world of sherlock -_- specifically the follower "Let'splaymurder". I had to get this out of my system, thanks to them XP anyway, I don't write smut often, but I did what I could. this also turned out a lot more angsty than intended... oh well. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_1\. Daithy Chainths_

 

 

Sherlock's first day of kindergarten consisted of him hopping boisterously on the balls of his feet, blue-green eyes wide as he looked at the other kids on the other side of the gate. Like bees they buzzed in a hectic flurry across the black-top, whirlwinds of coloured trainers and pretty bows and superhero t-shirts blurring together in a piñata mix that had the young boy quivering in anticipation. He strained in his older brother's iron grip, longing to join. Longing to run with them. Dark curls bobbing against his forehead, Sherlock fought Mycroft's hold, looking up at him with large, pleading eyes. Begging for release. His high, imperious voice drifted, the soft smudging of the edges of his words due to the shape of baby tooth he had just lost (Mummy had been _so_ proud).

 

“Pleathe Myc. I can _do_ thith. I am perfwectwy capabwle of going to school on my _own._ ”

 

It wasn't that Mycroft doubted his baby brother's confidence, _no._ Looking down at the precocious five-year old, dreaded _Sherlock Holmes of the Seven Seas_ looked as though he was all but chomping at the bit with his teeth, eager to go and _learn_ about the other children, _know_ them. In his eyes was the hope that Mycroft had once briefly held, that someone other than a member of his own family might understand. Might be able to _follow_ the erratic and chaotic way in which their minds worked. It was a childish, warm kind of jubilation, and the elder Holmes saw no point in crushing it. No, what he worried about was how quickly Sherlock _spoke_ , and how quickly children could turn on someone who sounded the least bit different.

 

But being only little more than a child himself, Mycroft would not be one to warn Sherlock of the dangers of school. Instead, he grinned rather meanly, poking fun at the little boy's exuberance.

“Not if you can't even say _splendid_ properly.”

 

Sherlock scowled. His green eyes for a moment darkened to something as unreadable as the sea. Then they lightened, and overly sweetly, he murmured “Don't need to be abwle to say it. Just need to be abwle to call you what you are.” Sticking out his tongue, the little boy tore himself free from his older brother's grip. Mycroft watched Sherlock run away, an eyebrow arched in amusement as his younger brother shrieked behind him “Bye _Piecwoft!_ ”

 

 

****

“Do you wanna help me build a daisy chain?”

 

Sherlock heard the voice by his ear, not looking up from the damp tears staining his knees as he tucked them up against his chest. For a moment it disoriented him, causing him to flinch as if expecting a blow to befall him. However when none came the pale boy's chin slowly rose, cheeks blotched and red from crying as he looked up at a girl with dark brown hair that shone in the sun almost ginger.

 

She was freckled, almost obscenely so, and her eyes were a glass kind brown that made them appear as if they glowed. Her light blue dress fluttered in the breeze as she squatted down beside the miserable boy, drawing her own legs so they crossed politely at the ankle. Her voice was clear and confident, each word enunciated flawlessly. Sherlock felt something dark and ugly fester in his chest at the sound.

“I'm Gwen.” She informed him with all the seriousness as someone giving out certified secrets, holding in her hands bunches of white and pale yellow daisies, letting them sit in the lap of her skirt as she twisted and wove them intricately.

 

After a moment, Sherlock hiccuped through his tears. He found them drying as shyly he replied “S-Sherwock Holmes.” The small boy's lips clamped shut, cheeks pinkening in horror as his lisp strayed out. He looked at his feet and resisted the urge to cry some more, not wanting to appear weak to the girl so calmly threading flowers together to make a tiara. The look she gave him in response to his hunching was something close to chiding, and she smiled widely as she said “I like it. Sherlock Holmes. Sounds right posh, doesn't it? S'pecially the way you say it. Don't mind the others, they're all _idiots._ ” And she reached out, placing a crown of flowers on top of the boy's inky curls with a finality that made the boy's watery smile grow. To this day, Sherlock could recall the sharp way in which the little girl had said _Idiots._ He prided himself in being able to imitate it, with unreserved and vicious glee should _anyone_ dare to be dull in his presence.

 

 

 

_2\. Conthulting Dethethtive_

 

 

The first time Sherlock overdosed, he was eighteen.

 

Being quite a bit older and more in control of his vocabulary and speech patterns as a whole, the detective rarely devolved into the childlike lisp that had brought him so much cruelty as a child in school. As it was, his voice now rolled with clear and perfunctory precision, never hesitating, rarely drifting off. It rumbled pleasingly low, and the young man often felt the vibration of it in his own throat, happy at how it could get people to stop in their tracks, listen, and do as he requested.

 

That is... most of the time.

 

When he wanted to be left alone however, people had a particularly irritating habit of ignoring his bids.

 

Especially _Bloody Lestrade._

 

Lord only knew how one could have such a _despicable_ name to pronounce, but high as he was, virtually bordering the realm between consciousness and dream, Sherlock had peered blearily up at the silver-haired DI, his words slurring together messily without his consent.

 

“Lesthrade... Jus'go 'way.”

 

And those hands, running through his curls. Checking his pulse. Weakly, Sherlock protested (“Thop it. _Thop._ M'fine.”) but the touch was warm and comforting. Safe. The detective found his eyes sliding closed against his will, and everything faded away. His lisp made everything worse, the last bit of his pride taken from him. Sherlock would have been angry, if he wasn't lost in such a haze. No words would formulate properly, no sounds making themselves known the way they should. Puzzle pieces, lost and floating in a dark sea. The detective felt as if he could hear his own heart, pounding away as it chased after the sentences, the phrases.

The last thing he heard was the DI's rather shaken exclamation of “ _Christ!_ He's in bad shape to be lisping... Only the great _consulting detective_ could be so spectacularly ignorant when it comes to his own health I swear...”

 

 

 

_3\. John Wathson_

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

He could see the deductions, all written out like fine acrylic ink tattooed on John Watson's face, on his hands and his very skin. Tells and clues and childhood habits, all bundled in soft knitted jumpers and woollen edges.

 

And yet there was so much more than just the surface. Like a lake disguised as a puddle, Sherlock's new flatmate had many layers tucked away, buried deep within him. A reflective character, the detective found himself mostly unwilling to pry if it meant upsetting his army doctor.

 

So instead he found himself offering up his own past, like tantalizing little tidbits. Bait designed to draw John in, keep him happy. The deal being sweetened with tea and adrenaline of course, occasionally a biscuit or two and a solid meal. The detective's only secret remained with him, held tightly in his chest, tucked away. Locking it in place behind his mask were the words he knew all too well, tracing his skin underneath.

 

_Freak._

 

_Say sassafrass!_

_SHERWOCK HOLMES!_

 

So Sherlock stayed aloof. Made sure to never slip. To never stumble no matter how quickly he smoothed over a deduction. He would remain as disconnected as the sea.

 

Except then John took to coming out of the shower only half dressed.

 

And started making toast for him at three in the morning when he couldn't sleep or think.

 

And started _wandering around_ in those bloody _red pants_ first thing in the morning and a holey sleep-shirt.

 

Sherlock was frankly surprised he had held on for so long. But when John finally broke the detective's barriers, he tended to smash them. The army doctor came out that saturday morning in his old fatigues, and Sherlock had nearly dropped his violin in shock. For a moment he stared, eyes catching on the glint of his flatmate's dog-tags, at the delicious curve of his arse. For a second all thoughts halted, and the detective found his mouth dry and his mind scrambling to get back online when John looked at him and shyly asked

“How does it look?”

 

Sherlock's response was hopelessly thick with lisping.

“Ith lookths... amazing.”

 

And the detective froze in horror, fearing John's teasing more than anyone else's. Without waiting to see how his flatmate reacted, Sherlock turned, bolting for his bedroom.

 

If he had looked back, he might have found John breathing just a shade heavier than normal, eyes rounded and pupils dilated widely.

 

In the safety of his bedroom, Sherlock sighed. Lying curled on his comforter, he fought the urge to go back, his shame causing his cheeks to burn.

“John Wathson...”

 

 

 

_4\. Kithess and Hugs_

 

Hands touching.

Lips mouthing against his neck.

 

Warmth, surging and heady and real. Sherlock panted, finding himself rocking up against the figure above him, eyes wide as he bit his lip to keep from speaking.

 

_Musn't. Musn't screw this up. Not when he's looking at you like that. Not when John-_

 

The detective moaned weakly as his army doctor licked a stripe down his chest, settling on a dusky nipple and latching onto it, sucking gently. The heat from the sensation shot straight to Sherlock's cock, and he twitched, teeth sinking into the flesh of his lip as he whined. Still John carried on, his breath murmuring things that were at once filthy as they were divine.

 

“So beautiful... Gorgeous.” Those dark blue eyes would not let Sherlock look away, even when John kissed a trail lower down his torso, settling on the waistband of his pants. The detective found the sight of the man's mouth so close to such an intimate area caused him to flush and stifle a cry, his voice coming out as a soft “Pwease.” Before he caught a hold of himself and bit the inside of his cheek.

 

The next instant, John's lips were there, pressing against Sherlock's mouth. His tongue swiped across the detective's bottom lip, soothing the ache away his own teeth had left. His voice was husky, a growl of pleasure that made Sherlock whimper with want. John's hand strayed under the detective's waistband, coming to rest on his length. His stroke was teasing as he whispered “Don't. I want to hear. It's okay. Be as loud as you want.”

 

And the last of Sherlock's defences began to crumble, and breathily he moaned into John's mouth.

“P-Pwease, John. I-I can'th. S'good. D-don't t-thop.”

“Do you even know how _hot_ that is?” John hissed, finally shucking away the last of the detective's clothes. Both of them now fully naked, John straddled Sherlock on the bed, grinding his hips down. The resulting friction caused both men to moan. Sherlock threw his head back, gasping and searching for something to anchor him. He found it in John's gaze, hypnotic and possessive.

 

So for once, Sherlock kept his secret no more. Instead, he pressed his words against John's lips, wrapped his arms about his waist. And rocking, gently rocking, he brokenly whimpered a steady litany of pleas and praise into his army doctor's ear.

 

“ _Don't thop. Pwease. Don't thop.”_

 

Sherlock regretted his lisp, but not because it existed. He regretted it in that moment because as he came harder than he ever had before in his _life,_ his brain shorted itself out. And struggling to even say _Are you okay?_ He never got around to telling John all that seemed to matter, only a few months later.

 

All that was important, implied but not stated in the touch of skin and the press of kisses along John's scalp.

 

 

 

_5\. Goodthbye John_

 

 

The last time Sherlock regretted his lisp, it was because it made John cry. Cry harder, anyway. That, and because something he had grown to actually like and love about himself, single-handedly managed to destroy the only person that mattered to him. When he felt the words stutter across his lips, Sherlock thought about saying it.

 

_I love you._

 

But he didn't think he could say it.

Not without lisping.

And in that moment, Sherlock would not risk John ever misunderstanding. Not hearing him correctly. He deserved more than that.

 

So the detective threw away his mobile, stretching out his arms.

Closing his eyes, he breathed and swayed in place but a moment, feeling the trembling of his limbs.

 

_Goodbye, John._

 

Then, Sherlock Holmes jumped.

 

 

 

+1. _Home_

“Back to Baker street, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“... Thank you, Bwother Mine.”

 

Sherlock lisped quietly, his mind on the man who's face had filled his mind for what felt like an eternity.

 

For once, he didn't mind.

 


End file.
